


So Sweet with a Mean Streak

by MellytheHun



Series: You Were Only 17 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Bullying, Fluff, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Prompt: Can I have a sterek fic where they're both in high school and derek bullies stiles and they get into like a fight or something and one of them ends up kissing the other? :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Sweet with a Mean Streak

**Author's Note:**

> The bullying in this fic is illustrated to feel a lot like pigtail pulling and not necessarily threatening. That being said, bullying can still be a trigger for a lot of people, so please be careful!

Stiles loves getting people in trouble, he really does. And he knows that with one word — just a single word — to his father, Derek Hale would spend the rest of his devastatingly handsome high school career in the Dean’s office.

He just can’t really call Derek a _bully_. Sure, Derek teases him relentlessly, keeps cafeteria straws just to aim spitballs at him during Econ and once replaced every book in his locker with a copy of Hilary Duff’s biography — but Stiles would still be hard pressed to call him a _bully_.

Derek Hale is strange ( _very_ strange), a bit rude, devastatingly handsome and just Derek. He’s been this way as long as Stiles can remember. Stiles has just come to accept that this is who Derek Hale is.

More than all that, Derek Hale has kept to the golden rule of pranking; “confuse, don’t abuse.” He’s never laid a hand on Stiles - he’s only done really strange things that throw off Stiles’ entire day.

Like, there was one time Stiles had to give a speech in American Government and when he went to get his index cards out, they were gone and in their place was a pack of Pokemon cards. It was like fifty Pokemon cards.

Then there was another time he got out of the gym showers and shoved his feet into his shoes without looking and they had been filled with shaving cream.

There was also that time Derek had put like thirty yards of chain in his locker and when he opened it up, Coach Finstock glared at him for almost a whole minute while it all came tumbling out. When he claimed he had no idea where the chain came from, it was pretty apparent that no one believed him.

This was all in the last semester, mind you.

But still, Stiles wouldn’t call Derek a bully.

He’s just Derek Hale.

Plain, old Derek Hale who was visited by the Puberty Fairy in sophomore year and was granted a chiseled jaw and incredible back muscles. Just Derek Hale who’s eyes twinkle and move like high tide water, whose eyelashes are long and thick and dark. Lil, ole Derek Hale whose waistline kept showing when he had that growth spurt in the beginning of junior year and the whole school became acquainted with his treasure trail.

Did Stiles mention Derek is devastatingly handsome?

Okay, so, maybe Stiles hadn’t told on Derek yet because he just didn’t mind the attention all that much.

 

"Maybe I’m a masochist. You don’t know me."

Scott rolls his eyes, pulling books from his locker.

"Honestly, that would explain a lot," Scott jokes.

Stiles doesn’t mind the jab, just looks out into the hall curiously, always unconsciously seeking out ebony hair and sea foam eyes.

Derek is standing in a semicircle with his posse, all of them absurdly attractive and smiling at each other. Derek’s not smiling, though — he doesn’t really do smiling. He only does a few degrees of smirking. Like, sexy smirking, predatory smirking (sometimes both at the same time… or Stiles just has the same reaction to both), I’m-about-to-fuck-shit-up smirking, that-was-funny-but-not-enough-to-make-me-laugh smirking, you-don’t-know-something-I-know-but-you’re-about-to-find-out smirking, malicious smirking and I’m-taking-pride-in-the-shit-I-fucked-up smirking. Stiles has spent several years cataloguing all the subtle differences.

"Mr. Darcy started off like a dick. Maybe there’s hope," Stiles offers.

Scott closes his locker and looks over his shoulder, following Stiles’ stare to Derek. He sighs and says,

"Mr. Darcy wasn’t a dick for seven years."

"Well, I don’t even count that first year," Stiles mentions, "He complimented me that year."

"It was the fifth grade, Stiles."

"He said he liked the freckles on my shoulders," Stiles persists.

Which is true.

_Stiles was eleven and Derek was twelve and they had been on the playground together on a very warm spring day. Derek had been playing kickball with other sixth graders — Greenberg had managed to kick the ball far and away enough that it smacked Stiles in the head, knocking him off the swings. Scott had knelt over him and then there was another shadow, blocking the sun from his eyes. Derek had come to get the ball and helped him stand up. Scott became distracted with yelling at someone who had tried stealing the vacant swings and missed the way Derek had looked Stiles firmly in the eyes._

_He had said, "Sorry about Greenberg. He sucks at everything."_

_Stiles had replied, “S’okay.”_

_Derek looked at Stiles’ exposed shoulders in his striped tank top and muttered, almost like an apology,_

_"I like the freckles on your shoulders."_

_Stiles touched absently at his upper arms and said, "Thanks."_

And Derek hadn’t said a single nice thing to him since that day.

To be fair, Derek hadn’t said anything directly to him since that day either.

"Him graduating will be good, Stiles," Scott comforts, "You’ve got some weird codependent complex going on with becoming obsessively attracted to mean people."

Stiles sighs, partially sadly because anytime someone brings up that Derek is a senior and graduating this year, he gets this awful twisty gut sensation and feels the looming shadow of an emotion that reads a lot like _what will I do without you_? And partially dreamily because Derek just combed his own hand through his hair and tilted his head a little just so that the muscles in his neck would flex.

Derek is sin on legs. Tall, strong legs.

Stiles isn’t proud of how much he likes Derek.

He likes to think his fondness is attached to real traits, though. He likes how smart Derek is — he’s the top in class in American Government and last year he gave up his lunch period for the first half of the year just to take Calculus. Like, who voluntarily does math? Derek Hale does.

He knows that Derek wants to be an engineer, that he likes designing and building. He once overheard Derek talking to Boyd about theoretical physics and how time is a medium and not an idea. The conversation came to a screeching halt when Stiles was spotted behind them, but the point is that he _heard it_. He heard Derek weighing the pros and cons of believing in relativity and what questions relativity answers and what questions it poses or leaves unanswered. Stiles had wanted to ask Derek about what Warp speed in Star Trek might actually be like and how might a manmade ship handle it, but he was too embarrassed.

Stiles also knows that before Derek decided on that career path, his original plan was to eventually become a wolf. In elementary school, he was often sent to the principal’s office for tackling and biting people — which he insisted was training. All the adults kept telling him, after all, that if you work hard enough, you can become anything. And boy, did Derek Hale take that to heart. During fourth grade graduation, when Stiles was only nine and in the third grade, the whole school and everyone’s parents had to watch a tiny ceremony.

The fourth graders got up on a little bridge, where a teacher with a miniature diploma crouched with a mic. The child would be asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, then be handed their diploma and they’d cross over the bridge into the fifth grade. It was a whole thing. So, when Derek went up and was asked what he’d like to be when he grew up, Derek replied that he would like to be a wolf. The teacher told him he couldn’t be a wolf and his clever response to that was, in that case, he didn’t want to grow up at all. He was just going to opt out of growing up if he couldn’t be a wolf.

Stiles is glad he found another passion, because the universe needs more beauty like a grown Derek Hale.

It’s too glorious to keep from the world.

Other than that, Stiles knows Derek has a big family he’d kill and die for, he works part-time at his father’s auto shop and enjoys it (oh God, there was one time Stiles had to get the tires changed on the Jeep and Derek had been there, spotted with oil and soot and sweat and it was just -)

"Stiles," Scott says, snapping his fingers in front of Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles glares at him, “What?”

"Dude, you are lost in la-la land. Come on - Chem time."

Stiles groans sadly, slinking off to Chemistry behind Scott.

* * *

 

So, if you had asked Stiles that morning if he had any bullies, he might have been tempted to say Derek, but he wouldn’t have. Distantly he would have considered Jackson, but Jackson had also never crossed into the realm of physical aggression. Although, unlike Derek, he insulted Stiles and occasionally defaced Stiles’ property.

That had more to do with Stiles’ prior crush on Jackson’s girlfriend, though. Stiles had moved on from that - something Scott had been thrilled about until he realized where Stiles’ infatuations had redirected to.

Anyway, because Stiles never spent much time considering Jackson, he’s pretty shocked when Jackson shoves past him in the hall at dismissal.

Normally, that wouldn’t get to Stiles, but it’s a hard shove. Jackson really puts his back into it and Stiles, mouth always faster than his brain, spits out,

"Hey, watch it, asshole."

Jackson twists around so quickly, Stiles cringes at just the movement.

The next thing he knows, he’s up against the lockers, being held by the collar of his hoodie.

"The fuck did you say to me?" Jackson sneers.

Stiles grips Jackson’s wrists weakly, knowing he’s unable to dislodge Jackson’s hold. A crowd quickly forms around them. No teachers seem to be around, to Stiles’ dismay.

"I said to watch it, _asshole_.”

Stiles knows how to pick and choose his battles.

No one ever said he was particularly good at it.

He considers mouthing off about what his father will do to Jackson’s record when he returns home with a black eye, but he’s sort of hoping Jackson makes a bad case for himself. He wants the proof that someone put their hands on him, so he can watch Jackson get kicked off the lacrosse team, so he can hear about Jackson getting suspended and people can talk about how forgiving and tolerant Stiles is for not getting a restraining order.

Just as Jackson is about to drive his fist into Stiles’ face (while some insensitive people have their phones out, filming his first pummeling), another first curls around Jackson’s descending hand. Stiles had turned his face defensively and shut his eyes instinctively, so he’s fairly shocked when he opens his eyes again to see Derek scowling dangerously at Jackson.

A second later and Jackson has let go of his hoodie, he’s flat on his feet again and Derek is standing between him and Jackson. His eyes are so dark and so narrow, his brows are furrowed and his muscles are flexed. He looks ready to swing and his back and shoulder muscles are so tense, so broad that Stiles feels more protected than he can remember ever feeling. He’s absurdly and entirely positive that no one could get past Derek right now, not for anything.

His heart is beating rapidly against his chest as some weird, silent social-alpha-male-ego showdown goes down between Jackson and Derek. Like dogs or wolves, it’s as if Derek stares Jackson down into submission. He glares and eventually turns on his heel, shoulders hunched and expensive car keys gripped in hand. The crowd starts to break apart and then Stiles is being hauled off by his upper arm.

Derek all but throws him into a nearby classroom, empty and unlit besides the low sun coming through the blinds.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Stiles’ brain short circuits because Derek _is talking to him_ and he feels like he just had a near death experience. His brain is misfiring, trying to get coherent strings of words to his mouth, but nothing cohesive comes together. He just sort of gapes uselessly and shows his palms.

Derek rolls his beautiful eyes and then sharpens them in a glower.

"Why were you challenging Jackson like that?"

"Why did you protect me?"

Derek freezes like he was about to stumble or misstep. There’s a lot happening in his eyes, but nothing that Stiles can understand.

"Why didn’t you just let Jackson fuck me up? What do you care?"

"No one lays a finger on you," Derek growls, pointing a shaky index finger at him, " _No one_.”

"Who _cares_?” Stiles begs, arms spreading wide, “You don’t even _like me_!”

"Stiles," Derek starts and — _Oh, God_.

Stiles had no idea what his name sounded like on Derek’s lips and it sounds beautiful. Suddenly his name is a song he wants to hear over and over. Despite it all, he feels like his name is safe in Derek’s mouth.

"I’m the only one who can…"

"Who can what?” Stiles interrogates, heart bumping and blood racing.

Derek makes some frustrated sound and then he’s up in Stiles’ space, cupping his face in both his hands and kissing him. It’s hard, it’s desperate and grounding. Stiles takes a sharp breath in through his nose, gripping into the cotton of Derek’s shirt.

The muscle beneath feels strong and it’s reassuring, it’s anchoring. Derek’s scent is masculine and romantic and it makes Stiles part his mouth on a moan. Derek sweeps his tongue across Stiles’ and rakes his hands through Stiles’ hair, coming to cradle the back of his head. He tilts Stiles face how he wants it, he dominates and leads Stiles like they’re dancing.

One of Stiles’ hands stays splayed across Derek’s chest and the other comes to curl around his neck. His thumb settles right below Derek’s ear and it makes everything strangely more intimate. Their waists are met, their stomachs are pressed up against each other and the weight of Derek is so real, he’s so dense and substantial, so palpable and genuine. Derek is very suddenly not just a daydream Stiles sometimes doodles in the column of class notes, but a material, living, bleeding, breathing human in his arms.

Derek pulls away suddenly, taking two long steps back. His eyes are wide and round, worried.

"I - "

"That - "

They both pause.

Stiles approaches Derek again slowly, reaches out lowly with his left hand. Derek hesitantly puts his right hand there and looks up at Stiles from under his lashes. Stiles struggles for words, his brain is this sort of smoky haze that’s left over after a fireworks show and he just mutters gently,

"Don’t stop."

There’s hardly a moment before Derek is on him again, pushing him back onto one of the tables and kissing him. He pulls at Stiles’ bottom lip, works it between his teeth. He licks into Stiles’ mouth, runs his hands all along Stiles’ torso and he doesn’t stop Stiles from doing the same to him.

When he moves to kiss down Stiles’ neck, Stiles lolls his head back to give Derek more room. Derek gives him an approving groan and it’s like something animalistic and hungry when Derek’s chest rumbles against him in pleasure. He licks up the column of Stiles’ neck, making Stiles gasp.

"I-is this what all the pranks were about?"

Derek hums against his skin positively. Stiles gives a small, breathless laugh and says,

"Y-you could have just told me - "

"Not good at talking about feelings," Derek mumbles against the crook of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles wishes for a second that his brain were online so he could make some quip about that, but Stiles has a brain and a dick and only enough blood in his body to work one at a time. He pets the back of Derek’s head encouragingly and then realizes that Derek has mentioned feelings and -

"W-wait - "

Derek instantly removes himself from Stiles’ skin, looking half anxious and half rejected. Stiles, blotchy with blush and pounding heart, asks,

"You — wait — feelings?"

Derek swallows loudly and Stiles licks his lips compulsively. He loves how they feel swollen and smooth. When Derek doesn’t reply, he asks more clearly,

"You have feelings for me?"

Derek’s brows curve.

"What did you think we were doing here?"

"I don’t know!" Stiles exclaims, "Resolving some sexual tension? I didn’t think you… you’ve really got feelings for me?"

Derek nods, looking very uncertain. He confesses softly,

"I… might be a little in love with you."

Stiles’ heart skips a beat.

He leans up to where Derek is standing between his spread legs. He touches both of Derek’s shoulders and admits,

"That… feeling is possibly very mutual. Very possibly. Completely, totally, very mutual."

Derek’s brows spring up in surprise and it’s painfully adorable. Stiles’ lidded eyes must have hearts in them at this point. He sighs sweetly as Derek’s hands come to cup his shoulders. Derek looks at them like he might be able to see through Stiles’ hoodie. He glances back at Stiles, a shy smile playing at his lips and he says, almost inaudibly and with the most affection Stiles has ever heard a person fit into seven simple words,

"I like the freckles on your shoulders."


End file.
